


Could Be

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: M/M, episode-related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-04
Updated: 2002-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 06:22:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/353060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lex thinks of Clark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Could Be

## Could Be

by Minnie

<http://www.geocities.com/caitrynick>

* * *

Category: UC/Slash, Clark/Lex 

Setting: Two scenes in Hourglass 

Dedication: To the wonderful Mireille who somehow managed to make sense out of all of this and to Menina for her kind comments 

Feedback: Constructive criticism is appreciated. 

Author's Note: I love the boys. Just love them to death. Ahem. Had to get that out. I started this fic with short sentences and they just ... stuck. Pre-slash, Lex rambling in his head about Clark. I mean, Lex POV. 

Archive Date: 11/28/2001 

Clark. 

He could look so worried. Pin me with an almost accusatory tone as I hop out of my car and amble towards him on the driveway. Chastise me about taking corners too fast, about breaking the sound barrier with my car. Make me arch a brow and reply with a blithe, "Where's the fun in that?" that belies the fuzzy heat blooming within. 

He could look troubled. Fill his eyes with painful concern about my health and safety. Make me glide instead of walk at the sight of that concern. Coat his voice with apprehension as he reveals an old woman's prediction that "someone very close to me would--." Stop himself from even uttering the word, making me say it instead. "Die?" Me die? Not with him around as my personal savior. 

He could look good. Bend over to drop the box of produce he carried in his hands. Stretch denim in all sorts of delicious places that my hands wish they could touch. 

He could sound so convincing. Or be so convinced this woman could predict something as ethereal and as random as the future. So sincere, as though he wants me to be convinced, too. Make me wish I could believe because his sincerity is unbearably sweet, something almost alien, otherworldly to me. 

He could be surprising. Pout over my cynicism, my refusal to believe that he is anything but a captive audience to the old woman's charlatan tricks. Climb the stairs into the house with me, uttering words that somehow rankle. "You sound just like my parents." Definitely surprising. Make me wonder what other surprises he has in store for me. 

He could be curious. Follow me like a faithful puppy to my study, wanting to know why I'm not interested in what the future held in store. Strange that this boy, this beautiful farm boy, whose future is a blank slate, wants a road map. Unlike me, doesn't chafe at the knowledge of what would be, what his fath--, what others may have planned for him. 

He could be even more worried. Give me another one of those piercingly clear gazes and say with reproach that I should be more careful about driving, future prediction or not. Because it would somehow ... hurt him ... if I'm not. Gaze at me as I give him a flip assurance that he'd be there to save me. Or perhaps, not so flip. Knowledge seeps within that he would be there. Now. Always. 

He could be beautiful. Just standing there in the middle of my study, looking at me. Unwavering, locking his eyes upon mine with the express purpose of ... what? Seducing me with sincerity? Trapping me into drinking my fill of him? So painfully lovely, an Italian fresco come to life. 

He could blush. Endearingly so. Not be able to break eye contact, despite the blush, despite the suddenly loud tick, tick, tick of the clock that warns of silence, of silence stretching too uncomfortably. Mutter something about making other deliveries while still holding my gaze and sounding like he'd rather be doing something else. Like stare at me until I'm almost breathless. And then move towards the door. 

He could be smug. Stop to strike back with an arch, "Thought you didn't believe me?" after I manage to get my breath back and ask him for the old woman's name. Sheer curiosity prods me into asking, because he deems her as the real deal. A phrase that normally proves to be false but because he says it, it rings true. Because he _is_ one. A real deal himself. The smug score off of me doesn't hurt. Especially when he leaves me with the name. Cassandra. 

Clark. 

He could be so lost. Look at me and wonder why I called him to the manor, why I kept the evidence of our first meeting, the battered Porsche, in a non-descript room, under a glare of bright spotlights. Talk to me with confusion resounding in his voice. "I don't get it. Why do you still have it?" Watch intently as I circle the wrecked car slowly. Wait just as intently for an answer. Listen to me respond with a tale of a rich man surviving the trauma of a hotel fire. Not the easy answer he is looking for but then again, there are no easy answers. Just stories about fate dealing out a second chance, the same chance he gave me when he pulled me out of the water. A circumstance that doesn't seem like chance. 

He could look nonchalant. Look sideways and investigate the front seat of the wrecked car while I confront him with the facts. "I had engineers go over this with a fine-toothed comb. They tell me there's no way the impact could have ripped open the roof like this." Not a flicker of reaction from him. Nothing I could pounce on. Just a present of his pretty profile. Soft planes and gorgeous angles that are almost enough to stop me from asking _the_ question. Almost, but not quite. 

He could lie. Without blinking, without blushing. Just stare at me with seemingly honest eyes and give a straightforward lie when I ask point blank, "Do you remember anything more about the accident?" "No, just that I pulled you out. That's it." That's it. Easy answer for him, but none for me. Nothing stirring in those eyes of his, no hint of the usual virulent emotions that make them so fascinating to watch. Just a blankness, a mask with a tiny smile. A clue that he's hiding something. That he's lying. The earnestness of the lie shifts something in me. Disappointment at him being all too human, flawed and imperfect, just like the rest. Not so much of a real deal after all. My eyes almost drop down. 

He could be apologetic. Sense that I know and accept the lie he hands out. Tug his lips into a rueful smile, offering it to me as some kind of apology, some small consolation for swallowing untruths from him. Watch me as I walk away from him, pondering his lie. I push slightly, to see if I could shake something loose with a subtle "An unsolved mystery, I guess?" 

He could be quick. Quick to slam the door to my query, parrying it with a thrust, a platitude at that. "Maybe fate has something else in mind." Distract me enough to wonder if fate has already given me that something. Him. The possibilities with him. Time with him to find answers. The thought makes me grin and whip out a passing remark about him spending too much time with Cassandra. 

He could be serious. Without looking at me, without even acknowledging anything but the wreckage in front of him. Tell me in somber tones not to dwell on the past even though the past binds us, makes us stand together in the here and now. Tell me to move on, to get past the lie. I do ... for now. Give me another look, this time, his mask half-slipping to reveal some ... emotion. "Lex, you're alive. Question is, where do you go from here?" 

He could be nave. Dangerous, to be asking a Luthor that question. I could go anywhere, do anything. Have anything. All it takes is some thing or some _one_ that I want. 

And Clark is some _one_ I want. 

He could be ... mine. 


End file.
